Wasn't Supposed To Be Like This
by TeyrianTimelord
Summary: Sherlock is the one who finds Molly after her cousin is pronounced killed in action. Mentions of James Bond, but not enough to be a crossover. Platonic Sherlolly fluff.


"You're three minutes late. I need you. –SH"

"Ten minutes late. Where are you? –SH"

"20 minutes late. Where are you? –SH"

"An hour late. Where are you? –SH"

Sherlock groaned and jammed his phone back into his pocket. Despite how often he came and went, the buffoons at St. Bart's still refused to let him use the pathology lab or the morgue without an employee there to supervise. And of course, since none of the other idiot technicians or interns were willing to leave him to his own devices, nothing could get done without Dr. Molly Hooper. Really, it was so inconsiderate of her to not only stay home, but to do so without at least sending him so much as a text message, leaving him to pace the lobby and do nothing by reread case files catalogued in his mind palace. He even asked the supervising pathologist if she had called in any sick days, but they were as in the dark as he was. After giving his hair a frustrated shake, Sherlock stomped outside and hailed a cab. If she wouldn't come to him, he would just have to go to her.

He didn't bother to knock. Like many other normal people, Molly left a spare key under the doormat. John had warned him that entering someone else's place of residence without an invitation or warning was a bad habit, but Sherlock had run out of patience. The muscle tissue he had to inspect was rapidly losing its potential to yield any useful information by the minute. He had no time to deal with his pathologist taking time off to paint her nails or play with her cat or whatever other mundane thing average bachelorettes did in their free time. As he barged in, however, he immediately regretted the admonishments that had already begun to form on his tongue. Molly was not painting her nails or playing with her cat or even smiling, doing any of the things she should have. She was sitting on her kitchen floor, knees tucked to her chest, gripping a crumpled piece of paper in one hand and using the other to cover her face. Her whole body was shaking with the intensity of heavy sobs, muffled by her tucked head.

Sherlock froze in panic. He did a quick scan of deductions: tear stains indicated at least an hour of crying; paper more than likely containing bad news, probably the death of a loved one; duration, probably someone in immediate family or childhood friend. Still, he wasn't sure what to do. It was usually John who comforted victims and knew how to behave around wounded people. Sherlock may as well have been a fish with a bicycle. This was not his area in the least. He started by just clearing his throat. This caused Molly to let out a little shriek of surprise and glance up. Her eyes were bright red and makeup stain streamed down the sides of her face. The pink lipstick she usually wore on Thursdays was smeared all over the corners of her mouth. She was by no means the cute mousey scientist he was used to dealing with.

"Sh-Sherlock?" she asked between noisy sniffles. "Wh-what are you doing here?"

"I… I was, um, coming to find you, um, because… I was worried," he managed to spit out.

It was only a half truth, but seemed like the right thing to say. Concern being appreciated and all that. She only nodded before declining back into her fit of sobbing. Though empathetic was on Mary's list of "Top Five Words that Describe Sherlock Holmes the Least," he felt nothing but pity for Molly, seeing her melted in a pathetic mess of devastation on a laminate floor. With the exception of Christmas, she had always been a stammering but well intended, average but still intelligent, bubbling young woman whose innocence and optimism could be sickening. Though admittedly was usually annoyed by this, and had used it to his advantage on more than one occasion, this Molly terrified him. She wasn't supposed to be like this.

Exhaling in exasperation at his own lack of expertise, Sherlock knelt down to her side and placed a tentative arm around her shoulder. She almost instantly curled into his chest, burying her face in his coat and taking hold of the lapels as if they were lifelines. He used the opportunity to ease the piece of paper out of her hand and quickly skim it.

'Dear Molly Hooper,

It is our deepest misfortune to inform you that Operative James Bond has been pronounced killed in action. Retrieval of a body was not possible. At the behest of his written requests filed upon his initiation into MI6, the protocol for no next of kin will be executed.

We offer our sincerest condolences,

William Tanner

Military Intelligence 6'

In spite of her distraught hysterics, Molly must have noticed him reading.

"He was my cousin. We grew up together," she tried to explain, but it sounded closer to a wail.

Sherlock tried to imagine what it would be like, to love a family member so dearly that it hurt this much to lose them. There would be a melancholy that might arise should anything happen to Mycroft, and of course some sadness should his parents die, but nothing that matched the display he saw on Molly. The closest he could come was remembering the day his parents had Redbeard taken to the veterinarian and put down. Even that still held a sting that twinged to the touch. But then he remembered what his mother had done to him that night, when he refused to come out of his room for dinner.

Without thinking too hard, he dropped the letter and began stroking her tangled hair. When her breathing finally began to even out, he wrapped her in a full embrace and rocked her back and forth. He didn't speak, because he didn't have any words. He knew every theory on grief and the way it impacted the human mind, all the psychology behind coping with loss, but none of it seemed relevant anymore. He was unsure of how long the two of them sat there, tangled and damp with the excess of tears, but eventually Molly lulled into an exhausted sleep.

The rest was done practically on autopilot and without any conscious effort. He carried her to her room and tucked her into bed, making sure the duvet tucked well under her chin to keep her warm. He made a cup of tea and scrounged for a biscuit to put on her nightstand so they would be the first things she saw when she woke up. Then quietly, Sherlock scanned the house until he found a framed photograph in the back of her closet. It was probably ten years old and the glass was a little cracked in the bottom right corner, but it was of a teenaged Molly with flowers braided into her hair and a young man with his arms wrapped protectively around her. He carefully propped it up on her kitchen counter before walking back to 221B.


End file.
